


All My Drinks And All My Feelings (Are All Fucking Mixed)

by skyline



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, I'm having a really hard time tagging this, M/M, Tony has a pseudo-crush on Jarvis, equal turns angst and fluff, just background alcohol galore, not a story about alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 11:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5966113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony spends more time than is possibly healthy locked in the workshop with JARVIS, doing modifications. </p><p>He can never get the voice just right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All My Drinks And All My Feelings (Are All Fucking Mixed)

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know what this is. I wanted to do something where bb!Tony had a crush on Jarvis but still within the Agent Carter universe, and it ran away from me and became this instead. 
> 
> If it is terrible, I apologize in advance.

_Vodka._

“Hush now. It’s not that bad.”

It’s one of Tony’s first memories; Jarvis pressing a cool palm to Tony’s cheek. He’s young, reckless. He came skidding down the freshly washed corridor, sneakers slipping and squeaking across wet wood. When he face-planted into a mahogany end table in a rain of plaster and shattering antiques, none of the servants are surprised.

He’s Tony Stark, tiny human hurricane, and this isn’t his first rodeo.

He wails, though. Screams at the top of his miniature lungs, a bleeding puncture on his forehead and too-bruised knees aching. He wails so strongly and for such a length of time that when Jarvis comes hurrying down the corridor, all black-suited and incredibly long legs, he’s practically begging Tony to cease and desist immediately. But when he sees Tony’s tear-streaked face, he softens. He bends down on one knee and pets his hair, examining the cut on his face, the scrapes on his legs. He says, “Hush now. It’s not that bad.”

Tony sniffles, burying his face in Jarvis’s shoulder. He smells familiar, like dish detergent and aftershave and home. Tony clings closer.

“It will be okay, Master Tony.” Jarvis strokes Tony’s head, his hair curling between the older man’s fingers. “No need for tears.”

The gunshot echo of wingtips is draws near in the hall, and then _he’s_ there. Tony’s dad, stern-faced and angry, grease stains on his forearms and a drink cradled in one hand.

“Stop your bitching,” Howard orders, staring down at his son. His lips form a thin line; not quite a frown. “Stark men are made of iron.”

“That may be true, Mr. Stark, but Tony’s not quite a man yet, is he?” One of Jarvis’s arms tightens around Tony’s shoulders, his protective instinct as fierce as his censure. He doesn’t break his Howard’s gaze, and Tony thinks – knows – they were friends once.

They were friends during the war, before his dad signed Jarvis onto his service. He’s heard them, sometimes, late at night; Jarvis calling his father _Howard_ the way he never does in the daylight hours, his tone a mixture of exhaustion and affection, always laced with ire.

Tony’s mom says that his dad is secretly a really, really nice guy. He’s a war hero, a brilliant scientist, a great philanthropist. All of that might be true.

He just always looks at Tony like he has no idea how to be a dad.

But maybe he is nice, deep, deep inside, because Howard visibly backs down in the face of Jarvis’s anger. He kneels at Tony’s level, meeting his eyes, dark on dark. “Buck up, kiddo. It hurts that much?”

Tony nods emphatically. Nothing in the whole wide world has ever hurt this much; he’s still seeing stars, dancing explosions of light in his vision.

“I know what will help.” Brandishing his martini glass, Howard plucks an olive from the bottom of the drink.

“Sir, I hardly think that’s-“

“He’s my son. I think I know what’s best.” Howard pops the olive between Tony’s lips, the salty tang barely drowning out the taste of alcohol, strong and bitter.

Tony chews with a grimace, wondering why his dad is constantly drinking this stuff. He struggles to swallow. Everything is bitter and gross.

Jarvis makes a noise of firm disapproval, because he’s Jarvis, and he disapproves of everything. Howard barely glances his way. He says to Tony, “When you grow up, things will hurt, and you won’t be able to cry anymore.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not done. People – bad men,” he amends, “Will use it against you. They’ll see where you’re weak and hit you there, again and again.”

Tony’s lip trembles. “I don’t like bad men.”

“Me neither, champ.” Howard squeezes Tony’s shoulder. Howard ruffles Tony’s hair. His eyes flick towards Jarvis, who stands, cross-armed and slumped against the wall. “Never let them see you break.”

“Now can I put him to bed, Mr. Stark?” Jarvis asks, but his voice has gone all soft and fond.

Howard straightens up, and Tony wonders if he will ever be tall and proud, like his dad. Or better yet, like Jarvis, who is so spindly that sometimes Tony thinks his head might hit the roof. “You spoil him.”

“I spoil you.”

Howard’s lips twitch; it’s almost a grin. Tony doesn’t entirely understand what’s happening, but he gets that he’s going to be forced into pajamas, which is never his favorite thing.

“Can you at least read me a bedtime story?” He asks, tugging on his dad’s shirtsleeve, because he wants one and Howard is there.

Howard spins the vodka in his glass around and around, watching the liquid slosh and shine. He pins Tony with his dark eyes, and Tony does not know what piercing means yet, but his knows that his dad’s gaze have him stuck, like a butterfly at the end of a needle.

Finally, decisively, he says, “Not tonight, Tony.”

It’s a momentary disappointment. One more shining example of Howard Stark: the man who never wanted to be a parent.

Tony looks askance at Jarvis, who says, “Well, I suppose that means you’re stuck with me. Shall we do Goodnight, Moon again?”

“That book is for babies,” Tony protests, but secretly he’s pleased. His dad’s bedtime stories are never as good as Jarvis’s; he doesn’t like to do the voices, or anything.

Jarvis scoops Tony up into his arms, ignoring the disapproving look Howard throws their way. He says, “That can’t be true, because I have it on good authority that Goodnight, Moon is your favorite book, and you are certainly too big to be a baby.”

Tony laughs and squirms, protesting, “I’mma Stark man. ’m made of iron! Daddy said so!”

He doesn’t see the way Howard rolls his eyes and mouths _spoiled_ to Jarvis; all he knows is that he’s wrapped up in the other man’s arms, safe.

Jarvis always protects him.

* * *

 

_Amaretto._

Tony glances up at Jarvis and licks his lips.

He’s still a kid, and a young one. But kids as young as Tony aren’t usually prepped to head off for their first semester at college.

“You’re going to miss me.”

“I’ll persevere, Master Tony.” Jarvis gives him a sunny smile, all open fondness that wrenches Tony’s heart. There are few things in Manhattan that he’s going to be homesick for; Jarvis is chief amongst them.

“Where’s dad? He’s supposed to go over the specs for the Artificial Intelligence software I’m developing.”

“Sentient robots.” Jarvis shakes his head. His hair is beginning to silver, but he’s still handsomer than he has any right to be, like a movie star. Albeit one who makes little more than minimum wage. “I’ll admit; the idea still mystifies me.”

Tony’s shrewd. He doesn’t miss the problem here. “You’re not answering the question.”

“Your father.” Jarvis takes a deep breath, clearly trying to think up some kind of lie and coming up short. His honesty is one of the many, many things Tony likes about the man. “He’s indisposed.”

“He’s drunk,” Tony says, because there’s no reason at all not to be blunt. Howard’s only ever working or drunk (sometimes both), and since Jarvis never looks this incredibly guilty when he’s working, well. “Does mom know?”

Wearily, Jarvis runs a hand through his hair and says, “Despite your mother’s best efforts, Mr. Stark has decided he’ll be sleeping in the study, this evening.”

Tony starts off towards the study, ignoring the sound of Jarvis’s hurried footsteps behind him. He bursts into the room, ignoring the elegantly crafted woodwork and beautiful leather-bound books, only to skid to a halt because oh, it’s going to be one of _those_ nights.

“Dad! Where are your pants?”

“I took them off,” Howard cheers, sprawled across a big, green leather chair in his underwear and a dress shirt. He’s _rumpled_ , Tony thinks, scandalized by the very idea of it.

“Why?”

Howard’s face scrunches up in confusion. “I’m sure drunk me has his reasons.”

“You’re drunk. Currently,” Jarvis says, in case that needs clarification.

“Way to be faced, dad,” Tony adds, half over it, half impressed.

“Shut your mouth,” Howard snaps, rage turning his cheeks scarlet.

“Ooh, feisty. Guess the search for Captain Spangly-Pants is going as well as ever?” Tony replies archly. He swipes Howard’s cup, taking a sip of something honey-colored and bittersweet. It’s disgusting. “Really? Things are so bad we’re breaking out the dessert liqueurs?”

“Master Tony!” Jarvis bites out, a line forming between his eyebrows. He’s mad. Tony can tell. He is very, very good at telling when people are mad. Usually at him. “Now isn’t the time-“

“Then when is the time? Steve Rogers is a corpse! He’s probably whale food, and dad spends more time out there, looking for him than you ever have-“ _With me_ , is what Tony wants to say. “With mom,” is what actually tumbles from his mouth. “I’m going to college, for Chris’sake, and my father, once again, is sobbing into his drink because he’s gay for Captain America-”

“That is _enough_ ,” Jarvis says, and it’s the harshest he’s ever spoken to Tony in his life. He’s got one arm wrapped around Tony’s forearm, like he wants to shake him, and that’s just. Not like Jarvis, at all.

Howard though. Howard leans back in his chair and predictably elevates the whole mood in the room. He says, “Careful son. You never want piss someone like Jarvis off. Good men are _dangerous_.”

Jarvis makes an impatient, very-un-Jarvis-like noise, his fingers tightening on Tony’s arm. “Stop feeding the boy lies.”

“It’s true,” Howard retorts, taunting him now. “Good men are stubborn. They think they’re always right. They won’t change, or adapt.” His eyes flick towards Jarvis, and he adds, “It’s all too easy for a good man to break your heart.”

“ _Howard_ ,” Jarvis says, and there it is, the way he only speaks when he thinks everyone else has gone to sleep, even Tony. Something in his voice is half-wrecked, half-wistful; but only ever half. The rest of him is steely and strong and true.

A good man, just like Howard is saying.

“That’s Mr. Stark,” Tony’s dad corrects mildly. The thin, dark mustache on his upper lip twitches, the only telltale sign that he’s got zero conviction behind his words.

Jarvis still goes rigid, as if shocked. He carefully composes himself, standing taller, straighter, more like a manservant and less like the Stark family’s most trusted friend. He grits out, “Where are my manners? Forgive me, _Mr. Stark_.”

Well, this is going just peachy. Tony crosses his arms and glares at Howard, who glowers just as effectively back. “Way to change the subject, dad.”

“Remind me of the subject, again?” Howard takes a sip of his amaretto and doesn’t look at all cowed. He’s a disgrace, this man; nothing at all like the cool, calculating creature that designs weapons of war in the basement.

Tony spits out, “You’re never going to find him.”

What he wants is for his dad to yell, to raise his arm and slap him. Instead, Howard shrugs, defeat evident in every line of his body. Softly, he agrees, “Probably not.”

Tony doesn’t even know what to say to that, so, disgusted, he leaves the room. He can hear the click of Jarvis’s perfectly polished shoes following behind him, and he wants…

He wants to shake Jarvis, because how dare he side with Tony’s dad over him?

He wants to kiss Jarvis, because he wonders what that would be like, like all the time.

(Tony also wants to cry, because fathers are supposed to be superheroes, but his has always been shit at that.)

“You shouldn’t have done that, Tony,” Jarvis says, dropping the honorific of Master. His gaze is a weighty thing on the back of Tony’s neck. “Your father is having a rough time of it.”

“You always defend him,” Tony accuses. He wants to punch something, his hand clenching helplessly into a fist. “He’s a drunk, and he’s negligent, and still, you protect him.”

“He needs protecting.”

Jarvis is completely unapologetic. He doesn’t say that Howard isn’t always cold or neglectful. He doesn’t say that Howard has a good heart. It’s only that; he needs protecting.

There’s a story Jarvis tells, about how Howard returned the favor and protected him, so long ago. Howard allowed Jarvis to reunite with his wife, Ana, when she was stuck in hostile territory and the only window Jarvis had to see through was the inside of a military jail cell. It reminds Tony that loyalty is important.

Maybe the most important thing, for a kid with abandonment issues out the wazoo and no friends at all to speak of.

Except for Jarvis. He’s as steadfast with Tony as he is with Howard.

Tony steps in close, arms tentatively splayed, like he’s scared Jarvis will reject him. The hug is loose and easy to escape.

“I’m sorry,” Tony breathes into Jarvis’s throat. “I’m really, really sorry. I didn’t mean to yell like that.”

After a moment, Jarvis hugs him back, hands a comfort against his shoulder blades. “It’s okay, Master Tony. It’s alright.”

Relief trickles warm and sweet along Tony’s spine. He long ago decided that disappointing his father is something he excels at. But disappointing Jarvis?

That’s not even an option.

* * *

 

_Rum._

Tony’s at a party when he gets the call.

He’s got a girl haphazard in his lap, a pretty brunette with bambi limbs, and they’re both slamming back jungle juice like it’s water.

“To my dearly departed father,” Tony says, raising his glass in a toast. Everyone else follows suit, from the former debs in their sequined squirts to his old science buddies from MIT, pocket protectors out in full force. “I never appreciated him more than when I inherited his liquor cabinet.”

It’s not a fair statement, not to either of his parents – who god, he misses with an ache that feels like a bullet wound. His mother’s absence he expected to hurt; she was one of the most brilliant, shining forces in his life, a whirlwind of a woman determined to do good. But his dad, who was absent more often than not? Tony never expected to be haunted by that particular ghost.

Obie says he’s suppressing his grief. Tony wishes Obie would stop trying to psychoanalyze and just focus on running the damn company. He’ll step up and take the reins when he’s good and fucking ready.

The brunette bats at Tony’s hand, which is straying precariously close to her ass. “Later,” she promises, her eyes burning like hot coals.

Tony’s thinking about _later_ , and now, and pretty much avoiding anything that doesn’t dwell in the dark, cobwebby places in his head when the apartment phone rings, a mechanized version of the jingle from Star Wars.

A girl nearest the wall startles, but then picks it up off the hook, slurring, “’lo?”

Her face pales as she listens to whoever is on the other end of the line. Eventually, reluctantly, she waves the phone in Tony’s direction, holding it like it might be diseased. “Stark. It’s for you.”

“Tell them to call back later. We’re having a party!” He hoots and hollers, and a few guys near him beat on their chests. Animals; everyone Tony knows.

The girl shakes her head insistently. “I really, really think you need to take this.”

Tony sighs. The things he does for his adoring public.

He goes in for one last pass at grab-ass, prompting a giggle from the brunette as he asks, “Do me a favor and scoot, sweetheart?”

Obligingly, she hops to her feet, and man, she is the tightest little package. Tony is looking forward to that. He licks his lips while he walks over to the girl with the phone, plucking it from her hand. “Okay, where’s the fire?”

“Anthony Stark?” A male voice asks, phone perched against Tony’s shoulder.

“Guilty as charged.” Tony twists the cord around his index finger, flashing the drunk girl who’d picked up a grin. She doesn’t smile back, shifting uncomfortably. “What can I do you for?”

“I’m calling in regards to Edwin Jarvis. You’re listed as his emergency contact on his medical-“

That’s about the part where Tony stops listening in, the phone falling from his hand. It dangles, limply, against the plaster wall, while all around him, people who aren’t even his friends get wasted on shitty rum punch.

Tony’s hand clenches into a fist, and before he even knows what’s happening, he drives his knuckles into the wall.

His broken hand breaks up the party pretty quickly.

Not like it even matters.

The months after Howard and Maria died were awful for Tony, but he didn’t suffer the worst. It was like with Howard gone, Jarvis had no more reason to exist.

So now he doesn’t.

* * *

 

_Kahlua._

Pepper thinks it’s weird, how much time he spends locked up in the workshop with JARVIS, working on modifications. Tony can never get the voice just right, but that’s not really Pepper’s business, is it?

He doesn’t pay her to think, he says.

She stands her ground on those intimidatingly tall heels of hers and says, “If that’s the way you feel, Mr. Stark, I don’t think I can continue on your payroll.”

It’s her first day.

More than that, she’s the first wholly competent PA he’s ever been able to hire. The ones before lied on their transcripts and couldn’t hack the real job, or _worse_ , only even applied because they wanted to fuck Tony Stark. Pepper’s different. He likes Pepper.

He thinks. Probably. Tony doesn’t have a lot of experience in liking people.

Or really, interacting with people.

He’s trying, though.

“He was my guardian,” Tony tells her, and it’s a complete non sequitur.

She blinks, long, red-blonde eyelashes framing those too-blue eyes of hers. “Who?”

“Jarvis. This guy.” Tony taps a wall with a stray tool, even though JARVIS isn’t technically housed there. He will be. He’ll be everywhere, in everything Tony owns, by the time he’s done. “He was my guardian. He died. I miss him.”

Immediately, Pepper softens, because she’s nothing at all like a monster. She says, “I’m sorry.”

Tony shrugs. “I am too.”

The sympathy play convinces her not to quit. And to bring him another cup of coffee, spiked just the way he likes it. Tony loves being clever.

* * *

 

_Sangria._

It’s been decades, and still, Tony tweaks JARVIS’s programming whenever he can, trying to modify his voice so that it sounds closer to his. It would help if he had a voicemail, a video, anything to work off of other than his memory, but Edwin Jarvis left a remarkably light technological footprint on this world.

Tony doesn’t dwell on it all the time; he’s got millions of other projects, and the pain of losing his manservant cum first crush has lessened with time. But he wishes, just once, he could hear him again.

He keeps thinking that he never even got to say goodbye.

“You can’t keep torturing yourself with this,” Pepper tells him, squeezing his hand tightly across the table.

They’re at a tapas place, a small, flickering candle and a tiny bouquet of wildflowers between them. The sangria tastes fruity on Tony’s tongue, contrasting with the tangier food.

None of it mixes great with the upwelling of emotion in Tony’s throat. Pepper’s so, so kind, and entirely too good for him, but.

“I certainly can keep torturing myself,” Tony says, distractedly rubbing the arc reactor through his dress shirt. “I am a master at masochism.”

“Say that less proudly,” she prompts, but a smile tugs at her lips. She laces their fingers together, and more gently continues, “You know, they say that a person’s voice is the first thing you forget after they…um, go. You might not even be remembering him the right way.”

Tony’s heard that, obviously. But it’s not right. The thing that time is stealing away from him is Jarvis’s face. He has pictures, of course, but when he tries to call him up in his memories, it’s like he’s obscured by white noise. His voice, though.

Tony can still hear his voice, resonating in empty halls in every property he owns.

It was the worst in Afghanistan, when all of his dreams became hellscapes, and Jarvis stood, unscathed, right at the center of them. His dad was a glowing-eyed demon, dancing a jig, but Jarvis?

He was changeless. The same as the last day Tony saw him, his visage terrorizing Tony’s nightmares more than any demon could.

Tony wishes Jarvis could have seen what he was meant to become. That he could have seen Iron Man and known that Tony was better, somehow, than the drunken mess of a playboy everyone expected.

But dead men’s eyes decay, and Jarvis has been in the ground for a long time.

“Thanks, Pep.” Tony frowns down at his drink, not quite red as blood. “For understanding.”

“Of course, Tony. He was family.”

Pepper’s always had a sense for when Tony is down, even when he tries to hide it. She pulls at his hand, trying to push some of her strength towards him.

Gratefully, he replies, “You are too, you know.”

“I know. Family holds you when things get rough.” She squeezes his hand again, emphatically, and oh, Tony must be the luckiest bastard in the universe, because Pepper’s smile can light up a room.

And she’s aiming it right his way.

* * *

 

_Whiskey._

Tony listens while Steve describes the ice to him; the shape and the color of it in his dreams, the pattern of glacial cracks that he can’t possibly have been conscious to see, but that somehow still haunts him.

Their friendship is still in this rocky, uncertain place, and Tony is careful not to say anything that might disrupt it. Even though he’s got about ninety three different jokes about freeze dried patriotism at hand. Besides, Tony understands a little something about nightmares.

Dummy whirs sympathetically, Steve absently stroking the robot while he talks. “-I think maybe it would be better if I hadn’t woken up.”

He pauses, letting that sink in. Tony frowns, wrench stilling in his palm. On a normal day, Steve has endless enthusiasm for the future. The world is full of marvels, and he’s only just getting acquainted with them.

This nightmare must have been rough. “Don’t give up.”

Steve’s lips thin. “Is there a pep talk in there, somewhere?”

“Yeah. I hate quitters.”

“How inspiring.”

“Look. You keep going because that’s all you have left, because that’s all you can do.” Tony starts back in on tightening the bolt on Butterfingers’ strut. “Never lose hope, Cap.”

“Wow.” Steve’s mouth trembles a little, the only sign that Tony’s words had any kind of impact. He runs his fingers against Dummy’s side one more time and then asks, “JARVIS, is he always this upbeat?”

“Indubitably, Captain Rogers.”

Tony shakes his head. He over did it on the voice modulator, this time. JARVIS is taking advantage of all the sarcasm he can handle.

It’s hard to remember any more whether the real Jarvis would have.

The winter wind howls down the city streets, but in the penthouse of the tower, they’re warm and safe. There’s still the slightest give and sway; all skyscrapers have it. It’s so minute that Tony doesn’t even notice.

Steve, though. Steve stiffens, and he notices _that_.

“Scared of heights, soldier?”

“Of course not.” Steve’s laughter is light, although his grimace doesn’t drop away. “I’m still getting used to living in the sky.”

“Says the man who spends most of his time on the helicarrier.” Tony pauses, laying the wrench across one knee so he can scratch at his beard. He smears oil across the visible parts of his chin; Steve has to suppress a smile. “I have another place, you know. Here in the city. A mansion. If the tower is too much, you’re welcome to stay there.”

“Alone?” Steve wrinkles his nose. He clearly doesn’t like the idea of that at all, and that’s cute. That warms Tony from the inside out, almost. “If you have a house, why all this?”

Tony shrugs, lifting the wrench again. Dummy whines, a bit impetuously, and from up above, he can feel JARVIS’s disapproval. They hate it when people pry into Tony’s business.

He built them that way.

“You get to this point when you grow up where your childhood home feels like a dead end. That’s what that place is to me.” He gestures around the workshop, encompassing the whole tower with his pride. “But here? I can start all over again. Doesn’t mean you have to, though.”

Steve inclines his head thoughtfully. “No. I like that. The idea of starting over, I mean. I think everyone should get a second chance.”

“Or in our line of work, a third, or a fourth, or a fifth.” Tony grins, throwing it wide, near blinding Steve with the brilliant flash of his teeth. “Speaking of, you should catch some shut-eye. The sun will be up soon.”

“What about you?”

“Eh.” Tony does not say that the reason people sleep is so that they can wake up the next day. He does not mention that since the city fell to pieces and he and Pepper hit a rough patch, he doesn’t see much reason to look forward to mornings. All of that would contradict everything he’d just told Steve. What does spill out of his mouth is, “I’ve still got some work down here, so.”

“Okay, Tony.” Steve claps him on the shoulder, looking a little less world-weary than when he first entered the workshop. “I get it. Good night.”

He really, really doesn’t get it, but Tony doesn’t mind.

He abandons Butterfingers about a half beat after the good Captain leaves the room, pouring himself three fingers of bourbon in an old Stark Expo mug that still contains the sludge of coffee grounds.

It makes it flavorful.

Balancing the mug on his stomach, Tony lies back against his workbench, right knee propped up, left foot flat on the floor. He says, “JARVIS, dim the lights and bring up that nifty code we all know and love.”

With a heavy sigh – why did he even do that, program his own damn AI to _sigh_? That’s the first thing he’s going to fix, for real this time – JARVIS says, “Another long night, sir?”

Tony can hear all the things the real Jarvis would have to say about this; a middle-aged man dwelling alone on impossible work, drink clutched in one hand.

Every inch of him is his father.

He takes a sip and replies, “Only kind I know, J.”

The lights dim until the only thing Tony can see is the slight, white glow of the arc reactor through his shirt. Then the code materializes into the air, all fancy blue ghost-lines; neat rows of magnificent ones and zeros that make up JARVIS’s consciousness. Faintly, Tony thinks that Steve would find the tech impressive. Steve thinks _Dummy_ is the pinnacle of cool.

Then he pushes the thought away, the silhouette of Steve’s grief, and his pain over Pepper; everything that hurts. Tony focuses on the only person that’s never really hurt him, tweaking code and imagining the push of Jarvis’s fingers through his hair and the blurry, fading edges of his smile.

* * *

 

_Tequila._

There’s this girl, and she’s kicking the shit out of the minor villain Tony was called in to stop.

Tony leans back against a comfortable tree, impressed. Curls fly, fists fly faster. It’s all very action movie-esque. He doesn’t usually get the chance to watch, but clearly his help is neither needed nor wanted.

The girl reminds him of Steve, a little. It’s probably all the red, white, and blue. Nationalism, everywhere.

Tony shakes his head, remembering when he was that young. The world had just come off Vietnam. National support was at an all-time low. He certainly wasn’t fighting crime in the stars and stripes.

When she finishes demolishing the d-list creep, she turns on Tony, chest heaving, eyes fiery. He wiggles his robotic fingers at her and greets, “America Chavez,” because JARVIS is quick on the facial recognition. “What is it with you patriotic types? Anger issues out the butt.”

She snorts. “Eloquent.”

“I’m known for my way with words.”

“That’s rather far down on the list of things you’re known for,” JARVIS snipes, audible only to Tony’s ears.

“What do you want, Iron Man?” America holds her head strong and proud, the physical embodiment of everything Steve represents. He’d probably be beaming with pride, prattling on about the initiative of the youth of today, or some such nonsense, if he was here.

Which he’s not. Tony frowns. He knows Steve was called in on this too; all the Avengers were. But Bruce is on a spiritual retreat and Natasha and Clint are off doing something spy-like and creepy, while Thor enjoys a romantic getaway with his Lady Jane. Steve, though, he just got back from some big, life-changing mission that basically broke SHIELD into teeny, tiny fragments, leaving Tony in charge of their semblance of a team. He’s had JARVIS running point on coordinating that ever since he got back from California.

Now there are new superheroes popping up all over the place, like this girl. And her glaring.

“Hey, now. I was just here for the assist. That you didn’t need.” He eyes the guy on the ground pointedly. “I’ll make myself scarce. But, by the by, have you seen Cap around?”

“Cap?” America echoes.

“Yeah. Ye tall.” He holds up a hand about his height, and then points at her outfit. “Same color scheme. Broader shoulders?”

“I know who Captain America is.” She scowls at Tony. “I haven’t seen him.”

“Huh. Weird.” Inside the helmet, Tony says, “JARVIS, hunt Steve down for me? He’s probably out shaking hands and kissing babies.”

He cuts his eyes towards America, who is watching him with unbridled curiosity. It’s probably strange to see a man in a metal suit standing completely still while he converses with the voice in his head. Then again, she’s a teenager who can stomp two bit criminals into the ground; she’s used to strange.

JARVIS replies, “Negative, sir. Captain Rogers does not appear to be kissing anyone.”

“Thanks for the update.” Like Tony need one; Steve is completely lacking in game. “What is he doing?”

“He’s at an establishment called…Blarney Stone?” Even JARVIS sounds startled, because that can’t be right.

“A bar? He’s at a bar? Steve doesn’t go to bars,” Tony objects, squinting at the tiny map JARVIS pulls up that contradicts what he’s saying.

“Apparently, he does.” JARVIS prisses out, of course, because the AI hates being told when he’s wrong.

That, at least, is just like the real Jarvis. Tony grins. “I-“

A jolt to Tony’s head distracts him. America is knocking on his helmet. His helmet, which is not for knocking on by superhumans. Ow. “Hello? Hey, creeper? Are you still in there?”

He snaps the faceplate up. “Rude. I was having a conversation.”

“We were having a conversation.” America points emphatically between the two of them. “And then you turned into a total space case. Whatever, I’m out.”

She stalks off, which means Tony probably doesn’t have a new friend. Oh well. He’s got bigger star spangled fish to fry.

He patiently waits for the cops to come and collect America’s dirtbag petty criminal, because she didn’t have the decency to stay and do it herself. Kids these days.

Then he jets off to Blarney Stone, which is every inch the Irish pub Tony was expecting. He can’t even tell if he’s hit it up before, because city pubs all look the same, and wait, isn’t there more than one Blarney Stone in New York? There’s definitely one on 8th, and another near Penn Station, he thinks, quietly murmuring for JARVIS to pull up those stats.

He drops the visuals as soon as he steps inside the bar, the suit giving the bouncer only the briefest pause. Tony finds Steve sitting in front of the long, sticky bar counter, staring blankly at a Yankees game on the flat screen against the wall. He doesn’t even blink when Tony approaches, even though half the bar has their phones out, snapping pictures like they can’t actually get on Instagram fast enough. JARVIS runs a feed of Iron Man sightings for Tony back home; he can only imagine how many hashtags his name has right now.

Tony retracts the faceplate and says, “I thought about taking a teenager out for shots, but I restrained myself.”

“Glad to hear it.” Steve rolls his eyes. He doesn’t stop watching the game.

“Lucky for me, you’re a better drinking partner. What are we having?”

“Water.”

Tony points to his left, where a group of college kids are salting their wrists, and then to the right, where an identical crowd are downing Irish car bombs. “You are a disappointment to twenty somethings everywhere. Live a little.”

“I can’t get drunk.”

“Can’t is such a limiting word, _mon capitaine_. You’re not trying hard enough.” Tony considers. “I bet Bruce and I could whip you up your own private flask of something.”

“I bet there’d be a fifty fifty chance it would kill me.” Steve snorts, low and derisive.

He certainly put on his grumpy pants this morning.

“Sixty forty,” Tony challenges, refusing to question Steve’s uncharacteristic moodiness – or his pants. His tight, leather pants – until he’s ready to volunteer the information. “No faith. You wound me, Rogers.”

Steve shrugs, eyeing the suit. “Please. Nothing could cut through all that armor.”

“Except _words_.” Tony sniffs. “Sticks and stone might be physically incapable of breaking my bones right now, but words can really hurt me.”

Being over the top ridiculous is usually the best way to press Steve’s buttons, for better or for worse, and he’s rewarded with a tired grin. “Sorry. It’s been a long day.”

“I’d be familiar with the concept if, you know, I made it out of the workshop long enough to see daylight. I hear there’s this big ball of fire in the sky called the sun, but I think it’s a myth.” Tony tests the bar stool next to Steve. He’s one hundred and ninety percent certain it won’t take the weight of the suit, so he leans against the bar instead. It’s hard to look casual when he’s armored up like an armadillo.

Steve says, “Did Natasha tell you? About…um. Bucky?”

That gets Tony’s attention. “Bucky. As in Bucky Barnes?”

It’s embarrassing that he knows so much about Steve’s life, a combination of childhood idol worship and his dad’s own obsession knotted at the core of him. He remembers the stories about Bucky Barnes, Steve’s best friend in the whole wide world, right up until he died.

“One and the same.”

“Is there…something new to tell me, about Bucky?” Tony asks carefully, trying hard not to mention that dead people don’t usually have fresh adventures.

“He’s back.”

“Back as in…?”

“Not dead. Russian super spy. I guess,” Steve says dully. He takes a sip of his water, and Tony wonders how much it must truly suck not to be able to get drunk at a time like this.

“That’s a thing that I wish someone had mentioned.” Tony frowns. “Who found him?”

“The short version is that he found me.” Steve replies. “He’s been up and walking around this whole time. I guess. I’m fuzzy on the details.”

His mouth snaps shut, and Tony can tell that he really does not want to talk about this. So he says the first thing that comes to mind, which nonsensically is, “My dad never stopped looking for you, you know.”

Steve glances up, his pale, blue eyes striking, even in the gloom of the bar. “I didn’t. Know that, I mean.”

Tony reconsiders the ordering something. Some mind-numbing shots, perhaps. Tequila! He sighs, and tells Steve, “It nearly tore my family apart.”

Steve’s lips part, and Tony knows that there’s an apology to be had there, that he’s making Steve feel bad when it’s the last thing he wants. He holds up a hand, the gesture made even more defensive with the repulsor embedded in the suit’s palm.

The armor glints in the dull fluorescence of the bar.

“I’m not saying it to guilt trip you. I’m saying it because you need to know you’re important to people. Not just as Captain America, but you, Steve Rogers. My dad couldn’t stop looking. Peggy Carter – she couldn’t stop waiting. And Barnes? He can’t forget you, no matter how hard Russia has probably tried to make him. You’re important, Steve.”

It’s only when JARVIS murmurs, almost proudly, “That was very kind of you, sir,” that Tony realizes he never lifted his faceplate for Steve. But that doesn’t seem to matter; Steve’s still watching him with this grateful, sweet expression, and Tony swallows because…

Because he’s used to protecting people, in the suit. He’s used to saving lives. But he is not used to protecting their feelings, to giving pep talks or making them not want to wallow, and he doesn’t know what to do with that.

He thinks of the way Jarvis used to wrap him in his arms whenever he was sad, and, without even thinking about it, he steps in and puts his arms around Steve. They are cold and metal, and apparently exactly what Steve needs. He sags back against Tony and sighs, “Thank you, Tony. Really.”

Steve’s eyes are the bluest, most beautiful thing that Tony has ever seen. Better than soaring through afternoon skies over Central Park, or the strange, crystalline clarity of the Pacific during a Malibu October morning. Steve repeats, “Thank you.

Tony’s heart flips over.

* * *

 

_Beer._

There’s this quiet lull after movie night, when the rest of the team has gone to bed. Tony is sipping a Corona, wondering if a weekend vacation to Mexico is something he can get away with, when Steve offers, “You look like him. Howard. Sometimes, anyway.”

Whether it’s meant to be a compliment or an insult, all it does is bring back eight million memories of his mother, cupping his chin, telling him, “You’re the spitting image of your father,” or worse, the one time Jarvis told him he had his dad’s eyes.

“Yeah, well.” Tony shrugs, wincing. The lightness of the casual evening dissipates. Steve watches him, eyebrows pinched, until Tony continues, “Dear old dad and I didn’t exactly get along.”

“I’d gathered. A little,” Steve admits. “Why not?”

Most people would shy away from that question, but Steve has never learned to back down. It’s one of his more admirable qualities.

“I wasn’t what he wanted.”

“You can’t think that-”

“Don’t bother.” Tony swallows back the rest of his beer, declaring, “There gets to be a point when not one, not two – more than three people have completely vivisected you out of their lives where you start to think, hey, maybe it’s not them. Maybe it’s me.”

Steve doesn’t ask about the others, about Tony’s first girlfriend or his favorite mentor, or any one of the number of human beings who have decided that Tony Stark isn’t good enough. He zeroes right in on the heart of the problem. “Tony, your father didn’t cut you out – he died-“

“He was a complete stranger to me long before the accident, Steve.” Tony doesn’t sound bitter, exactly. He doesn’t even feel it, much. Not anymore. “I don’t know what the Howard Stark you knew was like, but I can guarantee you, at the end, he wasn’t that man anymore.”

“Okay.” Steve takes a deep breath. “Okay, sure. But Pepper didn’t push you away completely.”

Tony doesn’t want to think about Pepper right now. He grits out, “No. Only every other girlfriend I’ve ever had has.” The corners of his mouth tick downward, a grimace that is near-painful. “Jarvis was the one person that didn’t- that looked at me like.”

Steve prompts, “Like what?”

“Like maybe I’m not a mistake. Like maybe having me in his life wasn’t the worst thing that ever happened to him.”

“You can’t think that, Tony.” Steve pauses, and then says, “I don’t think that. You know what’s incredible about you?”

“Everything? I know, thanks.”

“ _Tony_.” Steve huffs out a laugh, this brilliant sound that breaks the tension in half. Tony idly thinks about tasting it on his tongue, but he knows that it’s not something he can get away with. Steve barrels on, “You made yourself a hero.”

Okay, but. “So did you.”

“It’s not the same,” Steve insists, shaking his head so vigorously that Tony wonders if he’s going to fall off the couch. “You’re not like the rest of us; you weren’t forced into this, and you never had anything done to you-“

Tony’s hand rubs over the spot where the arc reactor used to be. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“-but you still chose to fight. It’s probably the most magnificent thing about you,” Steve tells him, appreciatively.

Magnificent isn’t a word Tony would ever have imagined Steve would use to describe him. He panics, and then he deflects. “You clearly haven’t seen my co-“

“Tony!”

“Fine.” Tony sighs. “It’s nothing. You chose to fight to, you know. Just because someone made you strong doesn’t mean you didn’t already have strength. It’s not like having super powers comes with a mandate that you absolutely must use them against bad guys.”

“It’s not nothing,” Steve replies, easily sidestepping Tony’s diversion. “You don’t have any powers.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” Tony mutters.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Tony plants his gaze pretty firmly on an invisible spot on the ceiling. “You volunteered to be a soldier. Thor’s a natural-born king. Bruce undertook this massive project to be…well, probably not a Hulk, but he wanted to recreate _you_. Natasha’s fighting the good fight, and Barton- okay, I’m not actually going to pretend to even know Barton’s story. Me? I spent most of my life making things that go boom.”

“You don’t have to apologize for that.”

“I’m _not_.” Tony laughs, harshly. He drags his gaze back towards Steve, and in a measured voice says, “You know, I never minded when they called me the merchant of death because I was saving men and women like you. I was saving our soldiers. A little mass murder on the side of our enemies? No big.”

He examines Steve as though he’s searching for judgment, and when he finds none, he forges on, “It’s only when I figured out that the dark side was coopting my toys that I decided I wanted them all back. It has nothing to do with pacifism, or regret – at least, not the kind people are crediting me with. I’m not sorry I built bombs.”

“You just want to have a say in who they’re used against.”

“Exactly.” Tony’s mouth is a grim line. “Don’t put me on the side of the angels, because I don’t belong there.”

Quietly, Steve corrects, “I think you do.”

“You’re clearly up for canonization or something,” Tony replies suspiciously, brushing the compliment away.

Steve shrugs. “No one can be noble all the time. Intentions don’t matter. It’s what you do that ends up making the difference.”

Tony blinks. “What I do isn’t so great.”

Squeezing Tony’s shoulder quickly, Steve clambers to his feet. He says, “Agree to disagree, Tony. And for what it’s worth, I think your dad would be proud. I know I am.”

Tony swallows back an upwelling of beer and bile. He’s had that thought himself, once or twice or three times, since the video his dad sent claiming Tony was his best creation. He’s wondered time and time again if Howard Stark would be proud of him.

If his mom would be.

If Jarvis would.

But right now, Captain America definitely is.

Somehow, that means more than anything else has in a long, long time.

* * *

 

_Scotch._

Steve calls, “Workaholic.”

That’s not right, and Tony knows it. He’s not a workaholic; he hates anything that could even remotely be described as work.

What he likes are projects, things he’s passionate about. Those are the things that keep him up all hours of the night. Those are the things that help keep his company running.

“Patriot,” he calls back, because it’s the worst insult he can think of at the moment.

“It’s dinner time.”

“M’busy.”

Dummy hums contentedly around his shoulders, a coffee cup swaying in his clawed little grasp while Tony tries to fix some complex circuitry on the automated guidance for his newest suit. Nearly getting beaned in the head by a steaming hot cup of spiked java should probably grab his attention, but it’s actually Steve lifting one of Tony’s newer bots off a side bench that catches his eye. “Careful with that. It’s delicate.”

The warning’s unnecessary. Steve knows his own strength.

But Tony likes to hear himself talk, and he doesn’t even mind if Steve talks back a little. It gets lonely in the workshop now that Pepper has stopped visiting, and JARVIS isn’t winning any trophies for witty conversational skills.

“Is it?” Steve asks, and there’s this weird inquiry in his voice that Tony doesn’t recognize.

Dummy dumps coffee on his lap right around the same time that there’s a crunching noise.

“Fuck, Tony.” Steve frowns at the bot in his hands, now missing a leg. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was so fragile.”

“No dice. You did that on purpose.” Tony glares at Dummy, muttering, “You’re both conspiring to kill me.”

“Yeah.” Steve grins, dangling the leg, which can be reattached with half a minute and a screw. “I did. Come to dinner, already.”

“This forced socialization you’re all trying to impose on me is getting very, very old. Tell me we ordered Indian.”

“We ordered Indian,” Steve replies obediently, beaming.

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place? I’m off like a dirty shirt.”

Tony makes a beeline for the stairs, jostling Steve on his way past like this is a race he can even hope to win. The five second head start is nothing; Steve overtakes him in the stairwell, and a well-timed elbow brushing against Tony’s sensitive ribs has him in the lead. But then Tony, never one for sportsmanship, tackles his leg, glomping on like a baby lemur as Steve drags him up the stairs.

“You’re an adult,” Steve tells him sternly. “You’re the CEO of a company,” he adds, when that doesn’t work.

“And you, sir,” Tony gasps, “Are a dirty cheat.”

“I won, fair and square.”

“If by fair you mean you exploited your knowledge of my ticklish spots, then yes. You’re incredibly fair,” Tony grumps. He does not let go of Steve’s leg. “I’m going to sue, you know. I’m going to sue, but don’t worry, I know some great lawyers over in Hell’s Kitchen. They could probably help you out with that. I’ll even foot the bill.”

“Thanks,” Steve replies, amused. “Your philanthropic spirit warms my heart.”

Tony smiles up at him, cheesy and adoring.

“You’re ridiculous,” Steve adds.

Tony lets go of Steve’s legs and balances on his heels, perched midway up the stairs like the strangest, biggest bird. “Does that mean I get a free pass on dinner?”

“No. Eating is a thing that humans need to do.” Steve holds out a hand to Tony, and Tony clasps it, pulling himself up until he’s about eye to chest with Steve. He peers up, dark eyes meeting blue, as Steve says, “Besides, I can hear your stomach rumbling.”

“Slander.”

Steve’s grin widens, and he sways infinitesimally closer, teetering on the edge of his stair. “It’s loud.”

“Like that shirt.” Tony jabs Steve’s shoulder. “You’re the only person I know over the age of thirty who doesn’t wear plaid ironically.”

Steve shifts even closer and says, “Tony, you’re changing the subject.”

“Am I?” Tony asks.

“You’re not getting out of dinner,” Steve repeats. And then he pauses, this moment stretching long and thick between them.

Tony can actually see resolve harden in those too-blue eyes of his before Steve’s mouth covers his. It’s the quickest kiss, a soft, wet brush of lips that is over way too soon.

Tony gapes. He asks, “What?”

He nearly falls backwards down the stairs.

The only thing that saves him is Steve’s grip on his arm, the strong circle of his fingers around Tony’s bicep. Steve tells him, “I’ve got you,” and fuck it all, but Tony believes it.

For the first time in years, he believes that someone is going to protect him, to guard him, to watch his back and support him. Steve isn’t Jarvis, but in a way, Steve is better.

He looks at Tony and he sees a _hero_.

Tony says, “You kissed me.”

Steve says, “I might do it again. After we eat. If that’s okay.” He drops his gaze for half a second, and then announces, “Come on, I’m starving.”

Steve takes the steps two at a time, and Tony watches his ass, because why the hell not? He calls, “You’re always starving, and we are definitely doing that again! And for longer! And possibly forever!”

He can actually feel Steve brighten.

Tony follows in his footsteps, more slowly, but no less ebullient.

At the doorway to the workshop stairs, he pauses. “JARVIS, can you get the lights?”

“Certainly, sir,” JARVIS’s cool voice replies.

For the very first time, Tony thinks that maybe he sounds exactly right.


End file.
